


Reclamation Project

by redneckrhetorician



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Statement Fic, The Buried - Freeform, The Usher Foundation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 18:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19323772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redneckrhetorician/pseuds/redneckrhetorician
Summary: Statement of Zach Anderson, regarding interactions with a childhood friend while on vacation.





	Reclamation Project

**Author's Note:**

> This story alludes to two different episodes, though I don’t think the references reach spoiler-level. See the end notes for the specific episodes. 
> 
> Please also let me know if I’ve messed up the tags. I’ve read a lot of AO3, but this is my first posted story.

**Statement Code:** 12/2018-NC3

**Subject:**   Zach Anderson

**Encounter Type:**   Possible elemental/spatial

**Location:**   Nags Head, North Carolina

**Transcriber:**   Josephine Brite

 

**Transcription Begins**

Honestly, most of the beach trips were due to my folks.  They worked office jobs, and neither were exactly high-paying for the amount of time they had to spend there.  They wanted to balance out things and have some fun memories with their kids.  My hometown’s about two hours from the Outer Banks.  Popping there for a weekend, even an afternoon, wasn’t hard.  And every coastal Carolina town is packed with cheap hotels and restaurants, great for three kids and their folks.

I’m not trying to sound like I hate the beach.  I loved those trips, still go when I can.  There’s nothing like the waves, stretching out to forever, always pushing and pulling with that rumble you hear less than you feel.  And there’s always new people to meet, temporary friends to hang with and sometimes see several times.  Like Chet.

We first met in June 2007—I was eight.  I can thank Abbi for it.  She’s my older sister, loves the beach even more than me.  Or at least all the shirtless dudes.  She satisfied both interests with her standard birthday present throughout her teenage years: four days at Nags Head.  We’d rent a unit at Sea Spray Cottages, not too far from Jockey’s Ridge. 

On our 2007 trip, I wandered away from the cottage as soon as I unpacked.  Hate being indoors any longer than necessary.  Anyhow, I headed to the picnic area.  There was another kid my age here, flipping through a deck of Yu-Gi-Oh cards.  I had my set in my pocket, so I pulled them out and sat across from him.  He glanced up, smiled.  We started talking about our favorite cards, the TV show.  Petty easy way to start a friendship.

In addition to being a serious Yu-Gi-Oh fan, Chet was pretty cool.  He lived in some town in Washington State, don’t remember the name.  He said it was mostly woods and one stop light.  Nags Head was NYC to him.  His grandmother worked at Sea Spray Cottages.  He’d visit every June for a few weeks.  Turns out she was busy a lot during the day, so once she met my parents and decided they weren’t perverts, she didn’t mind Chet hanging with us.  I actually got pretty close with her.  Cool to have a third grandmother.

Chet swore he’d come back the same time next year, so we could hang some more.  He actually met me at the check-in desk then, with new Yu-Gi-Oh cards. 

Our first stop that time was Jockey’s Ridge.  It’s a huge sand dune, wicked fun to try to climb.  Spent most of the day there.  I guess it was fun, though only one thing stands out.

We were vegging in the parking lot after getting a cart hotdog.  There was this truck nearby, a white pickup with building tools in the back.  I don’t remember the name well—Sink or Sky or some combo of them—but I recognized the address in the logo on the door.

I poked Chet.  “Dude, isn’t that company from your hometown?”

Chet glanced over, and then his face got…weird.  I hadn’t seen an expression like that before, didn’t see one like it again until a frat brother’s girlfriend caught him macking a different girl.  This…totally boned look, like he knew he was trapped and couldn’t worm out of it.

He breathed, “Yeah.”

I punched his shoulder.  “Weird coinkidink, hey?”

“Yeah.”

I probably didn’t care about his freak out then—hey, I was a kid.  We finished our hotdogs and went back to playing on the dunes.  I guess I had fun, but I don’t think Chet did.  He kept looking over his shoulder, like he kept hearing someone calling from the parking lot.  He’d snap back if someone talked with or nudged him, but only for a second.  He was like that all day.

It carried over the next day, when we went to the beach.  He kept looking towards Jockey’s Ridge.  Got him knocked down by waves a few times.  Every grown-up, plus my sister, yelled at him at least once.  Chet didn’t seem to care.  His grandmother ended up saying he had to go home—the surf wasn’t safe if he was that distracted.  I remember saying I’d see him after dinner. 

It was June 17th,  my sister’s actual birthday.  We celebrated at an all-you-could-shovel seafood buffet, one that served cheap sirloin and cheaper crab legs.  Those made it fancier than most of the places we ate.  Wish my folks would’ve paid more attention to the health inspector’s report.  Sis could handle the meal, got a garbage disposal for a stomach.  I spent the night feeling like the crab legs were ripping baseball-sized hunks of my guts.  Thank God for Pepto.  I turned in before sunset.

I’m not sure what woke me up.  It was late enough that most of the traffic was done for the day.  But I still woke up, luckily with a settled stomach.  A window was right by my bed, so the quiet was the first thing I noticed.  The second was Chet.

I don’t remember where his grandmother’s cottage was relative to ours, but he was walking away from all of them.  He didn’t seem rushed or upset or anything.  It was like he was just going to the 7/11, only at the ass end of night.  He was close enough for me to whisper-yell his name.  No response except for more walking.

After a few seconds, Chet got too far away to do the whisper part, and like any good bro, I didn’t want to get him in trouble by yelling, so I scuttled out the window.  Nearly twisted my ankle when I landed.  By the time I got myself balanced, Chet was down the street, heading towards Jockey’s Ridge.  I moved as quick as I could, which wasn’t fast because my ankle was still wonky.  I thought I’d catch him at the crosswalk just before the park.  The light was against him, but Chet didn’t slow up at all.  Lucky him.  When I tried to do the same thing, a white pickup shot out of nowhere and nearly pancaked me. 

Took me a second to get my breath and make sure no other cars were coming.  Then, I sprinted after Chet.  He was in the park by then, moving at the same speed he had the whole night.  He paced right up to one of the dunes.  Then, he kept going.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Jockey’s Ridge, but those sand dunes are big.  They’re freaking massive when you’re a third grader.  And they just swallowed him.  I did hear Chet scream, I think.  It sounded seriously muffled, like he was under miles of sand instead of a few feet.  It only lasted a second before it just…ended.  Don’t know why I didn’t yell for help, aside from a lack of common sense or just being a stupid kid.  I just reached in after him.

My arm went further than I expected, but the dune felt….  It was a mix of sand and raw hamburger and snot, with a little bit of fish guts thrown in for that extra puke motivator.  Then it moved, but not like dunes are supposed to.  Something spun itself around my arm, like when I’d lick around an ice-cream cone to stop it from dripping.  I scuttled back, must’ve hit my head. 

The next thing I know, I was back in bed.  No idea how I got there.  At first, I thought I’d dreamed up the whole thing.  Then, I went to the cabin’s kitchenette and saw my folks on the back porch talking to a cop.  They told me later he was looking for Chet. 

My folks wouldn’t let me talk to the police.  Honestly, I’m not sure what I could have told them.  I just buried the memory as best I could.  Didn’t even really remember it until I took Dr. Straub’s folklore class.  She suggested I come here and share my story.  Maybe it’ll let me sleep again without dreaming of the dunes eating me.

**Transcription ends**

**Supplemental Notes:**

Another one of Louise Straub’s students.  That woman has the most uncanny ability to find people who seem to have encountered the paranormal.  Regretfully, “seem” is the opportune word.  Much of this story cannot be verified.

After initial transcription, Field Team 4 was sent to Jockey’s Ridge.  They did not detect any anomalies in the sand’s composition, and ground penetrating radar did not register any organic material larger than a bird.  Miranda Firewalker, the team’s occult specialist, could not register any significant negative emotions.  She did say that, in addition to the passage of time, the location’s status as a park added more emphatic residue than a typical research site.  The combination could have masked any significant energies related to a manifestation.

According to the Nags’ Head police department, Chet Matheson did go missing on the night of June 17, 2008.  His grandmother, Agatha Clegg, stated he went to bed early after being distracted all day.  She thought it might be some sort of allergic reaction.  His window was cracked open, and his footprints were found in the flower bed underneath it.  The police did not seem to find any evidence of another person there.  The case is currently inactive.

Agatha Clegg died two years after Chet’s disappearance.  We cannot contact the rest of Chet’s family.  They all died in an earthquake on the same day Chet disappeared, in the town of Bucoda, Washington.

**Author's Note:**

> This statement alludes to events in episode 93 (“We All Ignore the Pit”) and to the name of the Buried’s ritual, which was revealed in episode 129 (“Submerged”).
> 
> The Sea Spray Cottages are real, at least according to Google. Two boys could possibly walk from there to Jockey’s Ridge State Park, though I may have shifted the park’s layout for dramatic purposes.


End file.
